Taste for a Well-Made Mistake
by Alexa Dean
Summary: Benny's been in situations like this before, young and dumb and too reckless to know any better, but he's never felt like it was something he couldn't handle.


**Fic:** Taste for a Well-Made Mistake (1/1), Dean/Benny, Sam [NC-17)

**Author:** lj user=alexadean

**Rating:** NC-17

**Pairing:** Dean/Benny, Sam

**Word Count:** ~4,200

**Warnings:** Infidelity, knife-play, blood-play (like whoa), jealous!Sam, unfaithful!Dean, morally dubious!Benny, mild violence, rough sex. Lots of cursing. This just might be the dirtiest thing I have ever written. Expect the worst. You have been warned.

**Spoilers:** thru S8. Takes place sometime after 8.9.

**Summary:**_ Benny's been in situations like this before, young and dumb and too reckless to know any better, but he's never felt like it was something he couldn't handle. It should be funny. It really fucking should. Except the look on Sam's face is epically murderous and so far from anything he would ever see from a brother, it leaves no doubt in Benny's mind he has stepped in shit up to his neck._

**AN:** To my sounding boards, betas, and enablers: lj user=ash-carpenter and lj user=Mekina without the two of you this fic wouldn't exist (for better or worse). It was definitely a difficult task trying to find a voice for Benny. This fic can be read as a stand-alone or considered part 1 of 2; the second of which will feature Sam and Dean having it out and dealing with the ensuing fall out.

Benny pauses, in no particular hurry and he'll be damned (again) if he's going to let Dean Winchester make him forget it.

Doubt has no room here with the two of them in the dark, where everything implied is unspoken truth and silence is as good as consent.

"Been too long, brother." Breathy, low, jagged edges of his voice ground down to pebbled glass. Smooth, but he needs to be smoother still, and sharp enough to slip under Dean's skin.

He drops his coat on a chair, looks up, eyes drawn to the bed where Dean sits, tendrils of steam still rising from his scrubbed-pink skin. He's naked, save a towel, hesitation seemingly cast off with the clothing left on the bathroom tile.

"Yeah, well I'm not on my brother's good side."

Benny merely nods, hand toying with the hem of his shirt. "You sure about this then?"

Benny's not hedging, but when the answer doesn't come quickly enough he pointedly doesn't wait for it. His shirt is already draped over his coat by the time he allows himself another glance at his wayward friend.

"If you gonna back out, now would be the time. Not playin' around."

Dean's warmth tugs at Benny, casts his eyes to the side and breaks his face into something of a smile, tongue curling, and dick all but dripping down his leg. And if he's honest, he deserves a little recognition. It's not easy with the ghost of panting breaths pressed into his jaw, Dean bubbling wetly into his hand, and velvet slide of Dean's tongue over his fingertips, licking them clean.

"Just," Dean begins, white-knuckling the mattress edge, eyes sly, sweeping lashes veiling his thoughts. "Just don't leave any marks. Nowhere noticeable."

Like Benny needs a reminder of just how dirty their secret is.

Benny nods anyway and maybe it's true and he is the dumbest fuck to ever hit the ground running because the last place a vampire should be is locked in a room alone with a Winchester.

His steps are slow and measured, loud against the floorboards, broadcasting his movements because Dean is as likely to bolt, as he is to slit his throat and Benny doesn't blame him. Benny understands. There are no lines drawn in the sand here. No reason to know each other. Except they do and neither of them knows why.

He doesn't need to urge Dean, just watches him go down, melting into the mattress, shoulders gold-limned against the dark bedspread, light and shadow warring over every hard-won curve and shady hollow, freckles like spilled salt on his skin, honey-colored and surely honey-flavored.

He crowds Dean, knee parting his like a hot knife and Dean pulling back as the towel drops away: legs bent and heels up, rigged to the mattress edge, thighs falling open, wider than should be comfortable, or even necessary and Benny looks his fill. Won't look away, not when Dean's unfurling beneath him like sailcloth to wind: cocktip glistening and furrowed skin pulled taut over his nuts.

And he's not sure he wants it like this. But hell if he isn't sure it's the only way Dean will take it: with slitted eyes and bared teeth and hands balled into fists overhead, more punishment than pleasure.

Boots scuff on the floor and he waits for the whisper of cloth and Dean's steel-sharp gaze, for all of it to converge into a halted thoughtful motion like casting a line and Benny's never been more thankful for having fed, because he wants in ways he shouldn't. And maybe in a few he should.

"Fuck." His heart is riding the throb in his cock, propelling him forward, has him rooting for the smell of soap and salt and semen.

Show me how much you want it, he says with his hands, etching a path on Dean's too-sleek belly, pared down by time spent fighting tooth and nail in the maw of the beast.

It's too much to take in and he's about to start frothing at the mouth if he can't get a taste, not from the prim little pucker blushing in almost-shadow.

He goes for his own belt, letting his trousers slide down to mid thigh and it doesn't matter that he's hindered by it because he's falling to his knees on the floorboards with his meaty hand on his own cock, pulling hard and slow and the other pulling Dean fast- afraid he'll run -shouldering himself behind his knees.

"What're'you-?"

"Want you on my face, Dean. Rub myself all over you and eat you like the girl you really are," he goads into the join of Dean's thigh, banter easy despite being driven by the scent of hidden things, pale and soft, where Dean's skin shimmers with the pulse of blood in his veins. He lets Dean feel his smile against the skin of his thigh.

"Fuck you, if you keep talkin' shit, I'm not gonna—" Dean doesn't get a chance to finish because the ensuing struggle, although minor, has Dean cursing and squirming mindlessly and Benny spreads a hand underneath Dean to lever his hips to his mouth.

"Goin' to taste you," he stretches each vowel and even adds a few for good measure. Dean goes with it, swiftly compliant; dick rocking up into Benny's enclosed hand, warm as an ember and impressively thick-with a low moan fit for an ass on rent.

"Just like that." He doesn't know if Dean hears him, and he doesn't really care. "That's it. Good Boy." But the shiver that wracks Dean's body tells him Dean's heard him loud and clear.

This is not about love. It's business and it makes things hotter, dirtier, honest and selfish in a way emotional connections are wont to muddy; and he can't say he doesn't enjoy the tight squeeze of Dean's legs, the clean shape of Dean's skin groomed bare in expectation. And it just makes it that much better - to know he'd groomed for Benny - that he'd planned it and had no intention of leaving unfucked and unowned.

Mouth open, wide and wet and wanting, holding, cradling, rolling movement of tongue on the plum-shape of Dean's balls. Gentle suction and scratch of scruff on thighskin. Reminder that this is Benny between his legs, Benny making his breath catch and his back arch and his hips pitch and sway; Benny mouthing the deep muscle of his perineum like he has nothing better to do than to bathe in the smell of Dean, like he has every right to him when he doesn't. Scratching away at all the jaggy edges of them until they're slotting together where they're hard and soft and wet, a new geometry built on sex and violence and the threat of death.

No way is he going without again. Not if he can help it. Not when he has Dean for the moment, pinned and spread, exposed heat without light and a deeper darkness against the night—all of him, all of it, fear and rage and misplaced loneliness right here, right now tethering him to this time and place.

And Dean's not only letting him but spurring him on, humping the air and clawing the mattress, panting hard enough to fog the windows, thighs trembling to stay apart, arched feet drawn, finding the hollows of Benny's ribs like they were made to fit together.

Benny sucks harder, nosing his balls then slanting and shifting until his chin is riding the cleft of Dean's ass, grating into the soft pink pout of his hole and Dean shouts.

Shouts.

Shouts Benny's name like his life is depending on it, rawness caught between admonishment and dirtyhotwant and yeahfucks and holyfuckyeahs. Benny's spit is everywhere, on his beard, his cheek, the tip of his nose and he doesn't think he's fucked anyone as loud as Dean.

He pulls back slow, with a slick pop and a slurp to the seam of Dean's nut sac. "Can I cut you?" His tone is careful and deliberately seductive, pedigree clear as a bell in it. Just like Dean likes it, only he'd never admit to it.

"Scratch'll do." He doesn't add that he doesn't trust himself to use his teeth, turns his head instead into the crook of Dean's knee to nip. "Just want to make it good." He's really trying hard not to be such a dick. But Dean, helpless and hard as fucking nails, is too much to pass up. "Show you a thing or two."

Fuck the boy is hot, cheeks and ears and chest blushing deep and rich as the too-red head of his cock.

"Whatever man," Dean says, ignoring the jibe. "Just keep going and stop messing with me." Dean's breathless and the shape of Dean's mouth is momentarily distracting: plump and wanton, lovely as only a woman's cunt has any right to be. He wonders what it would feel like pressed against his. And it's odd that he should know what Dean's come tastes but he doesn't know what it's like to kiss Dean.

The knife is strapped to his ankle, inside his boot and Dean doesn't flinch, or jump, or even hiss when Benny draws it across his perineum. And Benny has to close his eyes to the sight of blood: scent strong and filling all the hollow places in Benny's head and heart and bones.

Memories swell like a tide under the lunar pull of his thoughts: Dean riding his thigh, pressed into the dirt with his face tucked into Benny's cheek, rubbing against it until his face glowed red and raw from Benny's beard and hot with something shameful.

He catches blood in his mouth, following it to the shadowy place between Dean's cheeks and it's everything he wants: drip and suck and the sound of mouths, both hidden and not, meeting and parting. But it's not enough to feel it. He needs to see it. So he peels apart Dean's cleft, painting it bloody with his tongue, leaves it shining like the cut-open flesh of an apricot. He spears it, arrow-tipped tongue wriggling and teasing and gliding along, smearing rosettes into Dean's rim and Benny has to smile because he's never heard Dean or seen Dean like this—shameless and too out of it to feign indignity.

And maybe that's the best part of it all. Having Dean presenting himself with his ass in Benny's open hands, just begging for Benny's tongue: hole grasping at Benny like a sea creature. Benny pumping his cock against the bed sheets, worrying Dean's hole, sucking bruises like dirty promises right into that hidden place.

It's the blood he chases and pushes inside of Dean, the feeling of Dean trembling and sobbing and thumping his fists against the bed, balls drawing tight, but Benny brings Dean back from the brink with another clean scratch to his skin. Benny opens his mouth as wide as it can go and seals his lips around the laceration, flat tongue swiping flesh and coaxing a stream of blood into his mouth, coating his palate and easing the scratch in his throat. He loses himself in it, wanting more and burrowing into Dean so hard he has to crawl onto the mattress with him, bleach-stiff sheets gathering around Dean's head and shoulders until their forward motion is stopped by Dean's hands on the headboard. But Benny pushes still, until Dean is curled in on himself and Benny can't get Dean's legs to open any wider and sweat forms behind Dean's knees where Benny's hands have made a home for themselves.

Not enough, never enough, so he draws his hands together, pushing his thumbs into Dean, past the ring of muscle. Dean doubled over can't manage anything more than short shallow gasps and an occasional ahhh and ugh and something that could pass for Benny's name on a good day; hole clenching tightly around Benny's tongue, squeezing Benny out, blood welling into the cup of it for Benny to lap.

It's the nastiest fucking thing Benny's ever done but it's also the most arousing and he wishes he could see Dean's face right now, see firsthand exactly what he's doing to him. But he can read it in the way Dean pushes back, rocking little motions that have Benny grazing his human teeth against Dean's flesh. The sounds Dean makes must be something new, not quite a whine or a grunt but some rumbling, panting, hissing thing that raises Benny's hackles and has him palming his own cock in response, has him dribbling onto his knuckles in slimy ropes.

"Gonna ride your ass with my tongue all night," he says right into Dean and the way he tenses suddenly lets Benny know he's heard him. "Gonna have you beggin' to be stuffed full of cock and then I'm gonna give it to you so you're speaking in tongues." Benny doesn't kid. Not about this.

Dean really should look silly with his neck bent all out of sorts against the headboard and his ass in the air and Benny crushing him into the mattress, but he doesn't. By all accounts Dean shouldn't exist because he's some kind of amazing, writhing, slutty thing; sublime in a way only supernatural things could be. But he also looks a bit like a startled cat with his great-big eyes and bristly hair and sinuous curve to his back and it has Benny almost laughing to himself and swiping his tongue along the length of Dean's frenum and Dean can only answer with a spurt of precome from his painfully too full dick.

"Such a slut, Dean. You ever let your angel in on this? He ever get you this riled up? That why you were so desperate to get him here?"

"He's not my-"

So, yeah, he wasn't expecting Dean to do it and if he hadn't grabbed a hold of him he would've ended up on the floor. The kid is quick, not stronger than Benny, but smart and Benny still has his trousers in a bunch around his knees, so it's brute strength that gets Benny cutting his hips into the space between Dean's thighs. And it's a strangely sinister feeling that has him wrapping his hand around Dean's wrist and pinning the other beneath with the sheer force and weight of his want. His free hand holding his dick steady, slipping the head along the seam of Dean's perfect, glorious ass, slick with blood and Benny's spit and he's overtaken with the urge to slap it. One cheek and then the other and then between until it's red and throbbing and Benny's hand is nothing but pins and needles, but he files the image away for another night, another place.

"Gonna ride your ass," he hums, knowing that Dean needs it rough like this to ignore the noise in his head, the guilt and shame he carries around him like a world on his shoulders, obvious in his gold-flecked eyes, now that Benny knows what to look for.

Dean arches, belly so high Benny could kiss his navel if he wanted to, but he's busy pressing the blunt of his cock against Dean's grudging little hole, nowhere to go, no other choice than to open to Benny. To fucking take it. To swallow Benny up completely.

But Dean is as stubborn as they come and Benny's not sure he wants to do this anymore because it's gotta hurt and Dean may be a dick and a cocktease, inadvertent or not, but he is also Benny's friend and he's painfully aware of it now.

So he stops and trembles with adrenaline.

But Dean reaches for him, broad hand groping the back of his neck, rattlesnake quick, and their mouths crash together. Dean's arms coming around to ring Benny's neck, as his snake-charmer tongue steals taste from Benny's mouth. And it's better than anything Benny had imagined, no way to describe the pillowy curves moulding to his own, shaping Benny's mouth into something vulgar and hungry; none of it as gentle as his words might imply.

Benny's got his hand slipping around Dean, thumbs pressing into the divots bracketing Dean's ass like quotation marks, pulling him in tightly and Dean's the one reaching for Benny's cock and guiding it to his hole, his mouth never leaving Benny's, working it over fast and furious with his tongue.

Benny doesn't think he's ever seen anyone so starved for it the way Dean is. He breaks away to take a breath, foreheads pressed together and Dean's knees hiked up around Benny's ribcage, holding him flush and Benny has no place to go except through.

Dangerous. Dean is dangerous and somehow he's turned the tables on Benny; has him feeling out of sorts, like prey; and his lips tingle with the sudden rush of blood to them and he's sure they're as bruise-colored as Dean's.

He lifts his open mouth to Benny's like an offering and Benny accepts as he punches through Dean's ring and swallows Dean's sobbing cry. No shred of self-preservation in the kid and it's got Benny moaning and feeling suddenly protective of Dean. He can't move, not really. Dean is holding him too tight inside: nowhere loose enough.

Benny suddenly gets it, gets what Dean needs to let go and he brings his paw right over Dean's mouth, covering it easily.

"Let go," he whispers into Dean's ear. "Let it go."

And Dean does, bellow muffled as Benny opens him up with his dick, shallow, pert little thrusts of his hips working Dean open inch by inch until Benny loses it and fucks in with a savage strength that sends them both skidding across the mattress. Dean's eyes are deer-startled and his teeth had sunk into Benny's palm, but Benny can't bring himself to care because Dean is a spit-slick vice around him and Dean has gotten harder between them, precome sopping between their bellies with the pain of it and Dean's ass muscles contract ineffectually as Benny begins to fuck him in earnest and Dean starts moaning and howling into Benny's hand, bowed legs hitching up Benny's body like he has somewhere to go, ankles crossed at the dip of Benny's back.

Pleasure strikes Benny deaf and dumb, too aware of the blossoming heat in his belly and the answering furnace inside of Dean. And he's sure he'll have blisters to tend to later because there is no way he's not burning up from the rough-mouthed friction of their fucking. And Benny has Dean's head twisted to the side, hand never leaving his perfect, smart-assed, biblically whorish mouth. And he doesn't care that he's not supposed to leave a mark, because right now he's sucking at the join of Dean's shoulder, leaving a sluggish trail of saliva, human teeth biting into the muscle of his shoulder, and it's got Dean bucking and fucking back harder against Benny.

He's stupid with the pleasure of it, drunk off Dean's body, riding him at a full gallop because no one takes it better or as joyfully and he's got Dean kicking like a green-broke stallion rearing to go, the two of them rebounding from the springs and knocking the paint off the wall.

And he's laughing from giddiness and groaning with how fucking good it feels and it all feels so new he's sure he's never really fucked anyone before. He's toeing the line of his orgasm, practiced tightrope walk he's spent two lifetimes perfecting, a balancing act more to do with breath than rhythm, refusing to let go. Not yet. Not when it's this good.

"Gonna fuck the come right outta you," he huffs into Dean's cheek, "and then I'm gonna keep on fucking you 'til your hard again."

Dean's wet tongue is response enough, flat wide shape against Benny's hand, assent in the shadows falling soft and secret over Dean's upturned gaze. The room full of heat and the stinging smell of blood and sex, Dean's muffled shouts and the sound of Benny's balls against Dean's ass and Dean's ass against Benny's balls, less synchrony than a bar brawl: graceless and wild and everything fighting for your life should be. Rolling, surging pulse in his cock where it aches against the clench of Dean, fighting him still.

Benny doesn't think he can stop even if he wanted to and there is no way it won't end in the train wreck it looks like, with limbs tangled and legs kicking and blood slicking their bodies together. And he's sliding a hand between them, feeling where they're joined together and sticky and bruised.

Dean can't seem to make himself open up, not completely so Benny's got to do it for him, kneading along the rim, a gentle counterpoint to the jackhammer pace of his cock. Benny's back bowed and head tucked in, fascinated by the slipslide of them grinding together. The give and twitch of Dean's muscles around his cock.

"C'mon, baby. C'mon," he whispers soothingly, sure Dean is disinclined to appreciate, but Benny's not gonna apologize for it. Not when the tension is being pushed right out of Dean with every shove and pull of Benny's cock on Dean's hole and fuck it all if Benny's not gonna have friction burns tomorrow at the pace he's keeping.

And maybe they both had the same thought at the same time or something, because all of a sudden they're both rolling, and rolling, and then falling right off the bed. Benny buffering Dean's fall, wind knocked clean out. Hands scrambling to Dean's hips, needing to fuck him down into his lap again, force his way back deep in Dean's gut. But Dean is off before Benny can find purchase, skin sweat-slick and gleaming white, and Benny's shock whiter still by the cursory pain in his groin.

He smells ozone and cedar, bitter fetid smell of the sea on a breeze coming in through an open door.

_An open fucking door._

Startled laughter erupts unbidden from him as he rucks his pants up and looks around for his knife. Whirling to the echoing rattle and thump behind him.

Dean had barreled into Sam's chest and brought him to the floor. Hands grabbing onto Sam's right arm by the wrist: long blade Lucifer-bright in it, unwilling to let go as Dean pounds Sam's fist into the floor. Dean's knees grip Sam's hips, effectively pinning his legs together under him. Sam isn't really fighting him though. He's just trying to get away.

Trying to get to Benny.

Benny's mostly buttoned up as he sidesteps the violent tableau toward his shirt and coat, eyes lingering on Dean—those wide eyes, and ridiculously swollen mouth, teeth glinting, and bruises the shape of falling petals on his thighs. Desperate.

And he's really stupidly fucking beautiful. Fighting. And getting fucked through a mattress. But Benny can't help but note how at home Dean looks atop his brother's lap.

_Huh._

Oh.

"Get the fuck back!" Dean shouts at Benny, eyes never leaving his brother. Dean sounds terrified and it's wrong the way unnatural things are wrong and Benny's pretty sure he's the odd one out.

Benny's been in situations like this before, young and dumb and too reckless to know any better, but he's never felt like it was something he couldn't handle. It should be funny.

It really fucking should. Except the look on Sam's face is epically murderous and so far from anything Benny would ever see from a brother, it leaves no doubt in Benny's mind he has stepped in shit up to his neck.

"Lemme go! The fuck are you doing? You're not—you're not protecting him? Dean? _DEAN-"_

Sound of a lamp crashing to the ground, furniture skidding across the floor, "He's dead! He's so fuckin' dead! You fucking hear me?" Sam isn't even bothering to address Benny, like he's that inconsequential. "He just signed his death sentence."

Benny wants to say something like, "Hey chief, didn't mean to move in on your territory," but now that he has, he realizes he's glad he did, and he's not at all sorry and if he ever gets the chance again, he's gonna do it all over again.

Dean fell on his dick, after all.

_"Move your ass, Benny!"_

Benny arches a brow and throws a smirk over his shoulder on his way out. Pausing under the doorway, he says to Dean, but looking at Sam, "Can't find my cap. Make sure I get it back. Gonna hold you to it, Brother. "

When he hears more glass breaking and wood splintering he does quicken his step, laughing all the way to his truck.

Sequel: Nothing Wrong with a Song in Minor Key


End file.
